A Mother For His Family

by Susanne Dietze

  She must leave. Without evidence, alas, but it had been a wild hope to find the proof identifying him as a thief, declaring to the world he was not The Finder but a liar and a crook.

  Her arms shook as she lifted the book to replace it. Before it rose higher than her chin, however, she froze.

  She was not alone, after all. And it would have been far, far better to be caught by the manservant.

  “Good afternoon, darling.” Frederick grinned from the threshold, his cheeks ruddy from the cold, his greatcoat still on, his walking stick in hand. “What a delightful surprise.”

  * * *

  “I can’t say I’m surprised.” John blew hot breath into his gloved fists to warm his fingers, an act Carvey copied. The cold seeped up John’s cuffs and down his collar, despite his scarf and heavy greatcoat. “Since the massacre at Peterloo, parliamentary representation has been a more critical issue than education reform. I understand our friends’ priorities, but I wish we could address both.”

  The meeting with their cronies had been frustrating, to say the least. Almost as frustrating as the idea of Frederick Coles walking free about London.

  Carvey tipped his head back toward the house they’d just exited, where several of their friends complained over coffee in a room thick with tobacco smoke and angst. “At least Earl Grey is supportive of your ideas, but he is overworked.”

  Weren’t they all. “In God’s time, Carvey. I must let Him work out the matter.”

  “And all matters.” Carvey shoved his hands in his pockets. “Like this matter with Coles. Have you told your wife yet about this scheme of yours to prove him guilty of blackmailing you?”

  John scowled.

  “You haven’t, have you? You’re my closest friend, but you’re a fool.”

  “I’m trying to protect her.” John had made that clear, hadn’t he?

  “I doubt she’d see it that way. You’ve got to tell her. Today. She’s your wife.”

  It was far more complicated than that. Still, there was no use arguing with a man who’d do anything to see his true love once again, a man who couldn’t possibly understand John betrayed his first wife by having dangerous feelings for Helena.

  A change of subject was in order. “Let’s meet the Bow Street Runner, shall we? Perhaps he has new information for us.”

  “I’ll speak to him.” Carvey said with a grin as he turned and walked backward away from John. “You go home and talk to your wife.”

  John was not certain whether to smile or sigh as Carvey turned about and hurried toward Bow Street and the appointment with the investigator John had hired.

  Very well. He’d go home. The prospect of seeing Helena and having a proper talk was both appealing and frightening. Could he tell her about the blackmail, or his certainty Coles was partnered with the Thief of Mayfair, and his plan to prove Coles guilty of one of those crimes so he could be judged and sentenced for something, if not the crime he committed against her?

  Was Carvey right, that she might be furious with him for withholding his suspicions from her, even if he’d done it to protect her?

  Indubitably. But at least then, there would be nothing between them.

  He’d use the time at home wisely, then. He’d tell her his plan to get Coles arrested. Then he’d show her support and solidify their determination to parent together. Their friendship, their partnership, could grow stronger from this.

  Perhaps Helena would stay longer in London than they’d planned. She was comfortable here; he’d seen it at Lord Holliver’s. This was the life she’d known, among glittering society.

  And days like today, when the children misbehaved and she was surrounded by reminders of the life she could have had if she’d married someone like Lord Holliver—a fellow who’d clearly harbored tender feelings for Helena, John was sure of it—she surely wondered why she’d agreed to take on John and his bairns.

  His shudder was not entirely from the cold. Still, it was a blessed relief to enter the warm house. Kerr took his coat and hat.

  “It’s quiet.” John didn’t hear a thing, upstairs or down.

  “The children are at their studies with Miss Munro, milord. Her ladyship has not returned yet, but someone in Fennelwick livery delivered a letter, not five minutes ago. He said it was urgent for her ladyship, but if she was not here, you were to read it, milord.”

  His stomach sank to his boots. Why would the Fennelwick household send an urgent message to Helena, here, if she was with Frances?

  He took the letter. Tore it open right there in the vestibule and read, his mouth going dry.

  God, let me not be too late.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Helena gripped the book to her chest. Frederick didn’t move closer, but smiled at her, gesturing at her ensemble. “You’re in white, as you were the last time we were alone. Behind the dovecote, remember?”

  Before she could answer, he pretended to smack his head. “Silly me. I forgot you napped.”

  Like a sharp-edged pick, his laugh shattered the ice that had frozen her into immobility. Heat coursed through her bones. “You gave me laudanum, you rogue.”

  “And you are here, breaking into my house. You’re as much a criminal as you claim I am.”

  “There was no need to break into anything. The door was open.”

  He propped his ebony walking stick against the wall. “White is becoming on you. Of course, your penchant for the color contributed to your reputation as an ice maiden. Except with me.”

  She gripped the book to her like a shield. “You’re disgusting.”

  He divested his greatcoat. “Why are you here, darling? Are you searching my house for something to attest to what happened behind the dovecote? A vial of laudanum won’t prove anything. Or are you here because you love me still? Oh, Helena.” The words were smooth and sweet as honey as he leaned in, near enough to touch her.

  She swung the book at his head.

  A tiny trickle of ruby-red blood dribbled out his nose. He swiped it with the back of his hand. “Proud of yourself, darling?”

  “Not particularly.” She’d hoped to hit him so hard she could dash past him out of the house. She couldn’t do anything right.

  “Females and books aren’t a good combination.” He struck the book from her hands, sending it to the floor with a thud. Then he gripped her wrists, securing them in one of his hands while the other hand cuffed her neck. Not so hard she could not breathe. More like a warning that he could crush her throat if he wished. And it certainly kept her from screaming for Adam.

  Frederick was so close, his scent filled her senses. The tang of his bergamot cologne, the sweet of his hair pomade, the cinnamon-clove spice of his breath. All pleasant, masking such ugliness.

  She kicked. Hit something with her patten-shod foot, because Frederick growled. She yanked and her hand was free, caught again when his hand left her throat, but she didn’t stop struggling. Her bonnet knocked sideways and oh, there was his hand on her neck again. Squeezing.

  She was so tired. She might die here, foolish and stupid. At least, when she was found, John would know from her bruised hands she fought. With the last of her strength, she kicked again. Her patten flew from her foot and hit the floor with a clatter.

  Howling with pain, he released her, but scrambled to block the door. He had her trapped like an animal, but at least she had a moment to breathe. To look for another weapon.

  “Such spirit.” Frederick bent at the waist and rested his hands on his knees. “If I had known you planned to visit, I would have sent my manservant on a longer errand. But he’s discreet. And quite helpful.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Finder.” Disdain poured out her mouth. “He did a fine job playing the part of the Thief of Mayfair for you to stumble upon.”

  “So that’s why you’re here? To find trinkets to prove I’m behind the robberie
s? Discover anything, then?” He rose to his full height. “I didn’t think so. Now, what shall we do, you and I?”

  If only Frederick had not lost all his possessions, there might be something to throw at him. “You stand aside and I leave, that’s what we shall do.”

  “I’m not quite ready.” He stepped forward.

  She screamed Adam’s name.

  Frederick laughed. “You brought a servant? Is he outside? The street’s too noisy for him to hear you.”

  He meant to frighten her—and he did. But at once, a feeling fell over her, something like the sensation she’d encountered when she entered the kirk on her wedding day. Something like love, but different. Peace, perhaps.

  Adam might not be able to hear her, but she was not alone. She was never alone.

  “I can’t fight you forever, Frederick, but no matter how you humiliate me, God won’t abandon me here.”

  Frederick’s laugh rumbled from deep in his gut. “I heard talk of you becoming pious. I never believed ’twas true.”

  “God helped me change, and He can help you, too, Frederick.”

  “Enough.” With an angry jerk, he gripped her arm.

  Her chances of escape dwindled with every heartbeat. Yet still the odd feeling of peace thrummed through her veins.

  “Why are you smiling?” Frederick’s voice was different.

  Was she? “After what you did, how you left me, I feared that was all there would ever be of me. A broken, dirty shell, with no emotion but grief and self-loathing and hatred of you. But I do not think I hate you anymore. Instead, I’m sorry for you.”

  A loud, persistent knock sounded on the street door below stairs. In an instant, Frederick’s hand clamped over her still-open mouth. His fingers pressed into her lips and against her teeth. “If you scream again, you will bring ruin upon your household. You know that, don’t you?”

  Of course she did. Screaming could save her life, but her visit here would be exposed. She would embarrass John, his children, her family and herself. She nodded. Of course she could not scream.

  But she could bite. And there was already a finger at her teeth.

  * * *

  John’s fist was an inch from the door, preparing to pound again, when the scream reached his ears. Faint among the noise of the street behind him, but definite. Someone in the house cried out.

  Helena.

  John tried the latch. Locked.

  “Ardoch!”

  Carvey and the broad-shouldered Bow Street Runner John had hired crossed Jermyn Street, their brows knit in twin expressions of concern.

  If they were here, they must have found something, but there was no time to discuss it now. He jerked his head, indicating they should follow him. “I’m going ’round back.”

  They caught up. “Calm, man.” Carvey tried to be soothing.

  “Helena’s in there.” John might have said more had he not run into someone in familiar livery. “Adam?”

  “Milord.” Adam startled. “Her ladyship said—”

  “Never mind what she said. I’m going in.” John hurried to the kitchen door, his body tensed in preparation to break down the door.

  “Allow me, milord.” The ox-shaped Runner set his shoulder to the door and his hand on the latch. He almost fell inside when the door gave way under his hand.

  John bolted past him, following the sounds of scuffle upstairs. It wasn’t hard to find them. Coles gripped a struggling Helena, one hand clamping her arms, the other covering her mouth. Her bonnet was off, her hair a wild mess.

  John saw nothing but Helena’s face. That, and the ebony walking stick propped against the wall. It was in his hand in an instant.

  One hard swing to the back of Coles’s knees. With a cry, Coles dropped to the floor. Blood dripped down Coles’s hand.

  Helena said something. Everyone said something. But Helena’s blood on Coles’s hand spoke louder than their words. He shoved Coles to the ground with more vigor than necessary, twisting his arms behind his back.

  He glanced up. “Restrain him, Carvey, before I do something I will later regret.”

  “You trespass in my house,” Coles cried from the floor while Carvey and Adam held him down and the Runner pulled a length of twine from his pocket. “How dare you bind me?”

  John was already at Helena, cradling her cheeks, smoothing her hair, lowering the collar of her cloak to examine the angry pink marks blooming there. His hands could not be still while he took her in and pushed down the near-overwhelming desire to punch Coles in the kidneys. “Where are you bleeding, sweetheart?”

  “I am not.”

  She had to be. His fingers ran the length of her arms, the back of her head, her lips. “There’s blood all down his hand.”

  “Because I bit him.” She swiped her mouth.

  The Runner laughed.

  “That was you screeching, Coles? You scream like a suckling pig.” Carvey climbed off of Coles’s back.

  “I’ll have you before the court for this, Ardoch.” Coles staggered when the Runner hauled him upright.

  “I cannot wait for the day, Coles.” John sheltered Helena under his arm, close against his side. “Already the magistrate comes to arrest you.”

  A flash of fear dimmed his eyes, but it was quickly masked by a too-wide smile. “For this? I’ll tell the magistrate Helena came of her own accord and you beat me in a jealous rage.”

  “Carvey and the Runner know it’s untrue.”

  “They also know she came alone, and when word spreads, you’ll be the laughingstock of London.”

  A knock sounded below.

  “The magistrate.”

  “I shall let him in.” Adam first bent to retrieve Helena’s bonnet, which she shoved atop her head. Then she reached for something off the floor—a patten?

  Perhaps John should feel more satisfaction, but all he wanted was to take Helena home. “I doubt you’ll speak of my wife at all to the magistrate, Coles. You’re about to be arrested as a thief. Frederick ‘The Finder’ Coles is, in fact, the Thief of Mayfair.”

  Coles’s grin was the most annoying thing John had ever laid eyes on. “Tear the house apart. You’ll find nothing.”

  Helena gripped John’s fingers. “That’s why I’m here, John. My search was fruitless. Without evidence, how will he be convicted?”

  “Because his manservant, who played the part of the Thief of Mayfair, fenced off the items.” John turned his back on Coles and faced Helena again, touching her face and neck again to make sure she was hale. Then he tied the white bow of her bonnet under her chin. “I’ve had the chap followed for some time now, since before Holliver’s rout.”

  Carvey cleared his throat. “The servant just now attempted to sell a ruby exactly like Lord Bridgewell’s. Two Bow Street Runners and I watched the whole thing. One of them took the servant into custody, and we are here for Coles.”

  “Preposterous. It was my ruby.” Coles wrestled against the binding at his wrists. “I may sell what I wish.”

  Helena snorted. “If you’d had a ruby, you’d have sold it instead of your furnishings.”

  John caressed her shoulder, but his gaze fixed on Coles. “Once Lord Bridgewell identifies the ruby, you’ll be done for.”

  “My manservant stole it, then. I always knew he was a sneaky fellow.”

  The Bow Street Runner yanked Coles to his feet. “Enough of this hum. We know the funds for the stolen goods went to an account at Travers & Sons metalsmiths in your name, not his. And Travers himself has stated you’ve collected. You’re as guilty as he is.”

  Coles’s smile died at last.

  John held his hand up to forestall the Runner, who jostled out the door. “One last thing. You used Travers & Sons for your ill-gotten funds, so it’s only a matter of time before I prove you used them for the money you received through black
mail. Admit to it now, Coles, and I’ll see to it you aren’t transported to a penal colony.”

  Coles’s jaw gaped. “I don’t know what you’re blathering about.”

  “You know.” But at Coles’s befuddled expression, John’s stomach sank.

  A call from below, and the Runner lifted his brow at John. “Need more time, milord?”

  John shook his head. He’d wanted the blackmailer to be Coles. Hoped it was him. He squeezed Helena tighter to him.

  The Runner’s gruff voice faded as he urged Coles downstairs. Carvey followed, leaving John and Helena alone.

  John took a long, deep breath, recognizing for the first time the cold of the threadbare room and the tallow smell of the place. Coles’s debts must be significant, indeed. “If he’d been the blackmailer, he would have taken the money.”

  “What blackmailer?”

  He still had the letter in his inner coat pocket. “Allow me to tell you at home. I don’t wish to stay in this place a moment longer than necessary.”

  She sighed, but nodded. “Is it safe to go down? I’d not wish to cause talk if the magistrate sees me.”

  He straightened the mess he’d made of her bonnet bow. “It’s safe. You are with me.”

  “How did you find me? Oh, you didn’t. It sounds as if you’ve been following Frederick and his servant.”

  “Carvey and the Runners came for Frederick after apprehending his servant. I came for you,” he clarified, tucking her hand into his arm. “Miss Fennelwick sent a hasty note. She received a call from your grandmother, of all people, and could not break away from the dowager duchess’s inquisition despite her best attempts. She hoped her message might reach you in time, but if you were out, she instructed the letter to come to me, and the postscript was most illuminating.”

  “Was it?”

  “Espionage on the highest level. I admit I’m impressed.”

  “Not angry?” They started down the staircase.

  “A little, I suppose, to cover the fear. Things could have gone much differently here today. It was God’s grace that I received Miss Fennelwick’s message in time, instead of staying out with Carvey as I’d planned. That Carvey and the Runner were here for Coles and I intercepted them outside the door.” He slowed their steps on the stairs. “If I’d known what you were about—”